[page 221:]

SOME few months since we had occasion to speak of “The Biography and Poetical Remains of the Late Margaret Miller Davidson” — a work given to the public by Washington Irving. In common with all who read, we had been deeply interested in the narrative set forth. The portrait of the young and beautiful enthusiast, simply yet most effectively painted by one who touches nothing which he does not adorn, could not have failed to excite our warmest sympathies; and we dwelt upon the pleasing yet melancholy theme with a lingering delight. Of the biographical portion of the book we said, indeed, what every one says, and most justly — that nothing could be more intensely pathetic. In respect, however, to the “Poetical Remains,” the tone of our observations was not fully in accordance with that of the mass of our contemporaries. Without calling in question the extreme precocity of the child, — a precocity truly wonderful, — we were forced, in some slight measure, to dissent from that extravagant eulogium which had its origin, beyond doubt, in a confounding of the interest felt in the poetess and her sad fortunes, with a legitimate admiration of her works. We did not, in truth, conceive it to be either honest or necessary to mislead in [page 222:] any degree the public taste or opinion by styling “Lenore,” as it exists, a fine poem, merely because its author might have written a fine poem had she lived. We emphasize “might”; for the history of all intellect demonstrates that the point is a questionable one indeed. The analogies of Nature are universal; and just as the most rapidly growing herbage is the most speedy in its decay, — just as the ephemera struggles to perfection in a day only to perish in that day's decline, — so the mind is early matured only to be early in its decadence; and when we behold in the eye of infancy the soul of the adult, it is but indulging in a day dream to hope for any farther proportionate development. Should the prodigy survive to ripe age, a mental imbecility, not far removed from idiocy itself, is too frequently the result. From this rule the exceptions are rare indeed; but it should be observed that, when the exception does occur, the intellect is of a Titan cast even to the days of its extreme senility, and acquires renown not in one, but in all the wide fields of fancy and of reason.

Lucretia Maria Davidson, the subject of the memoir now before us, and the elder of the two sweet sisters who have acquired so much of fame prematurely, had not, like Margaret, an object of poetical emulation in her own family. In her genius, be it what it may, there is more of self-dependence — less of the imitative. Her mother's generous romance of soul may have stimulated, but did not instruct. Thus, although she has actually given less evidence of power (in our opinion) than Margaret, — less written proof, — still its indication must be considered at [[a]] higher value. Both perished at sixteen. Margaret, we think, has left the better poems — certainly the more precocious; while [page 223:] Lucretia evinces more unequivocally the soul of the poet. In our August number we quoted in full some stanzas composed by the former at eight years of age. The latter's earliest effusions are dated at fourteen. Yet the first compositions of the two seem to us of nearly equal merit.

The most elaborate production of Margaret is “Lenore,” of which we have just now spoken. It was written not long before her death, at the age of fifteen, after patient reflection, with much care, and with all that high resolve to do something for fame with which the reputation of her sister had inspired her. Under such circumstances, and with the early poetical education which she could not have failed to receive, we confess that, granting her a trifle more than average talent, it would have been rather a matter for surprise had she produced a worse, than had she produced a better poem than “Lenore.” Its length, viewed in connection with its keeping, its unity, its adaptation, and its completeness (and all these are points having reference to artistical knowledge and perseverance) will impress the critic more favourably than its fancy, or any other indication of poetic power. In all the more important qualities we have seen far, very far finer poems than “Lenore” written at a much earlier age than fifteen.

“Amir Khan,” the longest and chief composition of Lucretia, has been long known to the reading public. It was originally published, with others, in a small volume to which Professor Morse, of the American Society of Arts, contributed a Preface. Partly through the professor, yet no doubt partly through their own merits, the poems found their way to the laureate, Southey, who, after his peculiar fashion, and [page 224:] not unmindful of his previous furores in the case of Kirke White, Chatterton, and others of precocious ability, or at least celebrity, thought proper to review them in the Quarterly. This was at a period when we humbled ourselves, with a subserviency which would have been disgusting had it not been ludicrous, before the crudest critical dicta of Great Britain. It pleased the laureate, after some squibbling in the way of demurrer, to speak of the book in question as follows: “In these poems there is enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patrons and the friends and parents of the deceased could have formed.” Meaning nothing, or rather meaning anything, as we choose to interpret it, this sentence was still sufficient (and in fact the half of it would have been more than sufficient) to establish upon an immoveable basis the reputation of Miss Davidson in America. Thenceforward any examination of her true claims to distinction was considered little less than a declaration of heresy. Nor does the awe of the laureate's ipse dixit seem even yet to have entirely subsided. “The genius of Lucretia Davidson,” says Miss Sedgwick, “has had the meed of far more authoritative praise than ours; the following tribute is from the London Quarterly Review.” What this lady — for whom and for whose opinion we still have the highest respect — can mean by calling the praise of Southey “more authoritative” than her own, is a point we shall not pause to determine. Her praise is at least honest, or we hope so. Its “authority” is in exact proportion with each one's estimate of her judgment. But it would not do to say all this of the author [page 225:] of “Thalaba.” It would not do to say it in the hearing of men who are sane, and who, being sane, have perused the leading articles in the “London Quarterly Review” during the ten or fifteen years prior to that period when Robert Southey, having concocted “The Doctor,” took definite leave of his wits. In fact, for anything that we have yet seen or heard to the contrary, the opinion of the laureate in respect to the poem of “Amir Khan” is a matter still only known to Robert Southey. But were it known to all the world, as Miss Sedgwick supposes with so charmingly innocent an air, we mean to say were it really an honest opinion, — this “authoritative praise,” — still it would be worth, in the eyes of every sensible person, only just so much as it demonstrates, or makes a show of demonstrating. Happily the day has gone by, and we trust forever, when men are content to swear blindly by the words of a master, poet-laureate though he be. But what Southey says of the poem is at best an opinion and no more. What Miss Sedgwick says of it is very much in the same predicament. “Amir Khan,” she writes, “has long been before the public; but we think it has suffered from a general and very natural distrust of precocious genius. The versification is graceful, the story beautifully developed, and the orientalism is well sustained. We think it would not have done discredit to our most popular poets in the meridian of their fame; as the production of a girl of fifteen it seems prodigious.” The cant of a kind heart when betraying into error a naturally sound judgment, is perhaps the only species of cant in the world not altogether contemptible.

We yield to no one in warmth of admiration for the personal character of these sweet sisters, as that character [page 226:] is depicted by the mother, by Miss Sedgwick, and by Mr. Irving. But it costs us no effort to distinguish that which, in our heart, is love of their worth, from that which, in our intellect, is appreciation of their poetic ability. With the former, as critic, we have nothing to do. The distinction is one too obvious for comment; and its observation would have spared us much twaddle on the part of the commentators upon “Amir Khan.”

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NOTE. — This review and the one on p. 174, though separated months in time, have hitherto appeared as one review. — ED.

[[Footnotes]]

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 221:]

1.  See Margaret Miller Davidson, p. 174.